Reveries of a Paragon Options

[*Kathleen*]

His hands shook nervously as he loosely hung his head in them. Sweat drops raced across his brow, just above his once-alluring blue eyes, which had now faded to a dull, periwinkle shade. His pallid complexion hinted at the anxiety he could no longer suppress.

White, fortified walls surrounded him, keeping their secrets as the white coats scurried in and out of their rooms in a manner that divulged their enthusiasm for the profession. It was only a matter of time until one of them would scurry up to him, bearing the impending news.

He locked his gaze on the solid green coffee table across the room. The misshapen legs and lacerated top set it apart from the other tidy straight-out-of-an-Ikea-catalogue furniture. To him, the sight of the latter made everything feel unreal and stifling.

The accident had occurred less than a mere three hours ago, but the trauma prohibited him from retaining all but two memories, one of which he so desperately now clung to. Determined not to lose her, he played the foremost memory repeatedly in his mind, for the other he exerted all his efforts towards deleting it from his mind. He imagines the way her chocolate-colored curls bounced upon her shoulders, her convivial eyes locked into his as he shared some trivial story with her. When she laughed, he felt complete. With each moment he spent with her, he fell in love with her all over again. He knew that he wanted to share every other moment of his life with her, no matter what that entailed. Her composure was exceedingly pleasant; she was one of those rarities whose inner beauty harmonized that of the external. Perfection, although never what he sought for, is what he believed her to be.

Suddenly, a woman rushed passed him, breaking his trance. With now having something other than the coffee table to stare at, his eyes torpidly followed her to the coffee machine. As she poured the empty liquid into her Styrofoam cup, he naturally looked her over, observing her frumpy figure. Aged about fifty years, the woman’s sorrow was found in both the deep bags under her eyes and tear-stained cheeks, displaying to the world that she now suffered from insomnia. The remainder of her disposition was just as flattering as her face: the floral pattern upon her dress laid deep beneath the comfort of a myriad of stains, her socks failed to match, the hat atop her head was hanging on to her hair by a bobby pin, and the flower that used to rest on her navy blue sweater now hung by a thread near her waist. She has been here for days.

Wondering if his fate would soon match this woman’s, his mind abruptly placed him back to the accident – the other memory. He wakes up to see hemoglobin correctly executing its profession; her hair, now saturated with the liquid, hid her eyes from him. The object had impaled her in the chest, pinning her to the passenger seat, thus disabling her from moving had she been conscious. It exerts all his strength to lift his arm up to hold her hand, but he does it anyway. He then drifts out of consciousness himself.

Thankfully for him, the blinding white coat now settled in front of him interrupted this agonizing memory. Of course, the words that are to emerge from the doctor’s mouth could very well create an even worse memory. Strangely enough, before the doctor could even utter syllables, memories of her countenance rapidly flashed before him. It was at that moment that he realized he had never loved someone as much as he loved her.

Love is forever - ceaseless, he thought to himself. A single tear sought his cheek.

"Hello there Mr. Smith, my name is Dr. Dorian; I am sorry to have kept you waiting. There were some complications during the surgery, but it was a success. Your fiancée is now in stable condition. To be honest, her chances looked very bleak at first, but she pulled through. I was afraid I would be coming here bearing bad news. Fortunately for everyone, your fiancée has an amazing will to live."